


Strata and Lamina

by boo_cool_robot



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boo_cool_robot/pseuds/boo_cool_robot
Summary: A collection of my FatT ficlets and snippets too short to post elsewhere1: Adaire turns into a giant and holds Hella, is still miserable in Swordtown (Hella/Adaire)2: Samot contemplates fishing and the nature of hunger (Samot/Samothes)
Relationships: Adaire Ducarte/Hella Varal, Samot/Samothes (Friends at the Table), samot & samol
Kudos: 3





	1. I've been big and small and big again etc etc (Helladaire)

“Does this help?” Hella looks up at Adaire sitting huge above her, pats the side of her knee awkwardly.

Adaire sighs, sending a gust of breath through Hella’s hair. “This is just another fucked up thing about this place, huh? It knows that I feel—whatever, and it makes me big, and nothing changes.”

“Yeah...” Hella grabs the edges of Adaire’s petticoats, uses it to hoist herself up onto her left thigh. “Do you wanna like...go screw with Samothes’s furniture or something? Because that would be wrong, but like—we could.”

“Nah.” Adaire idly encircles Hella’s chest with her hands. It’s—not unpleasant. “He probably expects it. Hadrian, though...”

Hella frowns, but doesn’t shake off Adaire’s fingers. She needs this.


	2. Another Copse on a Hill (Samot)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a present for Linda Imperialhare's birthday! Congratulations on loving Samot.

Samot scans the river, clear enough even with the crust of ice to see straight through to the bottom. His fishing pole crunches in the snow as he anchors it on the bank. 

His father had once told him that fishing was where patience was rewarded. “You can pick the best hook, the best bait, the best line, but the most important thing to pick is an interestin’ book and a nice comfy ice-free spot for your behind. No fish is comin’ right on up to you without a heap of waitin’ first. But trust me, they’ll come. Y’see, all creatures become hungry eventually. In the winter more than other seasons.” 

Samot, barely more than a scrap of shadow, had responded, “I’m always hungry.” Perhaps a lick of Nothingness had flickered out of his mouth as he’d said it. 

Samol had watched him, blinked slow and almost calculating, and then grinned. “Well, you’re a growing boy after all. Lucky I thought ahead and brought you a little nibble to quiet your belly while we wait.” 

From that day, Samot remembers the sweet taste of gingerbread, snapped up in a few bites, parchment paper and all, more than any fish his father might have caught. 

Samol had been right in some ways. He had felt learned patience over the years as he’d clawed his way from shadow-wolf to boy-prince, could not help but relearn is as he’d slowly made his way back into his husband’s embrace. He has known the taste of patience in the back of his throat. With all his lessons, he has come to accept that he is, at heart, a creature of hunger. 

So Samot pounces.

Midair, he shifts into his wolf form, punching through the thin crust of ice with his momentum. With lupine instinct, he closes his jaws around where a silvery salmon should have been. Misses, barely.

He emerges and becomes a man again, icy water streaming from his hair onto his bare shoulders. Holds his head with dignity. 

Samothes laughs where he waits on the bank, breath steaming white in the air. He openly watches water race down Samot’s chest. “No dinner for us tonight, my love?” 

Samot spits out a scale. His breath never shows in the air, winter always a part of his lungs. “We’ll eat eventually. My teeth are sharp, Husband.” 

Samothes laughs again. “I know that well. Take a break for now. Join me at my hearth.” He bows, gesturing to the clay oven he’s spent the last hour building with a flourish.

Samot does, and is greeted by a warm swirl of spices as Samothes pulls a pan from the oven. They are both, in this moment, creatures of their father’s lessons, even through all their hunger. Each bite of gingerbread Samothes lays on his tongue is sweet.


End file.
